Life Sentences (10 page)

Jack was sprinting southbound
on
Tripalo
Street, beads of sweat dripping down
his neck. "In foot pursuit of a white male wearing black sweats and
red athletic shoes," he panted into his portable as the suspect
rounded a stucco house about thirty yards ahead of him. Gaines had led
him into a family neighborhood, full of gingerbread cottages with
peaked roofs and dormer windows, where the tidy homes were backed by asphalt
alleyways. Jack hurtled across somebody's front yard, kicking up scuffs
of dust, then vaulted over a child's tricycle. During drought season,
the coyotes would follow their prey down into the suburbs, where the delectable
fruit trees and lawn sprinklers and swimming pools were. Jack was chasing
a coyote now, a carnivorous animal. He sidestepped a lawn chair,
then darted past a baking tennis court before catching sight of the suspect
across the street.

"Hey!" He crossed the road,
dodging cars and drawing his service revolver, then chased Gaines up a
long alleyway, grateful for the shade of the spreading sycamores and
cottonwoods behind the wood-shingled homes. The alleyway mounted a
long, easy grade that ended in a chain-link fence. "Hold it right there!"

Gaines grabbed hold of the top of
the fence and, denting the garbage can lids, hoisted himself up and
over. He landed on the other side like a cat. "Stop! Freeze!"

Gaines slowly raised his hands.
Jack slipped the safety off his service revolver and held the suspect's
eye through the chain-link. Roy Gaines was tall and trim, wild-eyed and bristling
with confidence, the type of tattooed character who, if he moved in
next door to you, would surely scare your dog to death. His face was damaged
but beautiful, as pockmarked as the surface of the moon, with prominent
cheekbones, a straight nose and thin mouth, the aggressive line of
his jaw disappearing into a strong neck and square shoulders. His upper
body was impressive. He'd cut the sleeves off his sweatshirt in order
to show off his biceps, and those prison-hard muscles made Jack feel like
a fat, lazy toad.

"Don't you move!" Jack
aimed his gun and saw the world through a lens of adrenaline where everything
was a threat, even the California laurel bordering the alleyway.
"Stay right where you are!" Gaines showed no reaction.

Jack was conscious of everything
around him-the willows and sycamores, the older tract homes, his shortness
of breath, his racing heart. He looked up at the top rail of the eight-foot-high
fence and wondered how he was supposed to scale it and still keep the
suspect in his sites. He held the gun with a stiff, urgent grip and craned
his neck, trying to figure it out, when all of a sudden Gaines turned and
fled in the opposite direction, heading for a parallel street.

"Jesus Christ." Jack holstered
his weapon and clambered up and over the fence, toes digging into the wire
mesh. He dropped down, landing hard on his hands and knees in somebody's
driveway. "
Oof
!"

He couldn't see Gaines anywhere,
but the sound of footsteps rang out. Jack searched the shady areas between
house lots, and after a moment, Gaines burst from the shadows into the
light, his dark hair lifting in spikes and spines.

Jack streaked after him, weaving
through the late-afternoon traffic like the skinny kid in gym class who
had a lot to prove. "Police! Police!" He stabbed out
bis
arm and flashed his badge while brakes squealed
all around him. He dodged car hoods and narrowly missed a passing motorcycle
before a BMW right-angled sharply in front of him, the distracted driver
dropping his cell phone and screaming, "Is that why you became a cop?
So you could cross the street anytime you fucking feel like it?"
There was no forehead, just a disappointing fringe of hair and a pair
of power shades.

"My heart bleeds!" Jack
shouted back before heading east on Laurel, his feet drumming over the
cracked asphalt as he circumvented an old man out walking his dogs and
almost tripped over their leashes. The afternoon sun was high and intense,
and the flesh of his face jolted up and down with every pounding stride.

Huff,
huff, huff.

Thirty yards ahead of him, Gaines
scaled another fence, dropping down and running through a series of backyards.
Up and over fences. Seriously, who was this guy? Jack legged it past an
audience of rusty lounge chairs and blackened barbecue equipment,
then circumvented a swimming pool where a bunch of kids were having a
birthday party.

Huff,
huff, huff.

He stubbornly chased the suspect,
refusing to give up despite his lousy physical condition. Too much
Stoli
, not enough spinach. A little kid
spidered
out of his way as he chose a parallel yard,
beautifully landscaped with rosebushes and lemon trees. He crashed
through the garden, crushing the magnificent birds of paradise underfoot,
then flipped over a fence and landed directly in front of the suspect, his
feet slamming like brakes.

Jack aimed his gun center mass and
waited for his breathing to normalize. "Put your hands up," he
said hoarsely. There was no fence between them now. "Come on.
Up."

Gaines slowly raised his hands, his
eyes trained on the man with the gun.

Jack liked it when they obeyed
him. "Don't let me misinterpret your actions." He had the suspect
pinned between an empty garage and a cement-block wall. The Spanish-style
stucco ranch house was hastily constructed, and already there were
cracks in the foundation. He could hear the suction of a sliding glass
door, could feel a curious pair of eyes peering down at them from behind
the
miniblinds
.

"Mind your own business!"
Jack hollered up, and the window slid shut. To the suspect, he said,
"Turn around."

A police car braked in the driveway
behind them.

Gaines lowered his arms and moved
calmly forward.

Jack couldn't believe it.
"Don't come any closer!"

Gaines took another aggressive
step.

"Stop or I'll shoot!" he
warned, speaking with the narrative speed of a two-year-old. "Don't
come any closer! Stop… stop…"

Gaines grabbed Jack by the shirt
and jerked him sideways, then spun him around. He landed a vertical fist
to the nose that snapped Jack's head back.

Jack's hands scrabbled for a grip.
Shots rang out, high and wide. Spent shells fell to the ground and pinged
over the asphalt. Bluish smoke whirled in the air above their heads.

Tully came racing toward them.
Jack had never been so happy to see this big, beautiful, middle-aged
black man in his entire life. Tully barreled up the driveway, and soon
the three of them were grappling.

They dropped to the pavement and
rolled around in the dead grass. Jack punched Gaines in the nose, and
the suspect screamed. His face was spiked with blood. His eyes were insane.
Jack pried the gun away and twisted his arms around behind his back, then
pitched him over onto his face and crushed his head so deep in the grass
he imagined that Gaines could see the antennae quivering on a grasshopper.

Tully kept the suspect pinned while
Jack ran his hands over his body, searching for hidden weapons. It was
over. He tried to feel good about it. His mouth was filling with blood.
He grabbed Gaines's left hand and snapped on a cuff, then reached for his
other arm and wrenched it backward.

"
Ow
."

"Shut up!"

Once the suspect's hands were cuffed,
a little twist could be torture. Easier to control that way. He would
surrender to them willingly. Jack hoisted Gaines to his feet and recited
his Miranda rights.

Roy Gaines listened solemnly. He
had the kind of quiet stare that made you seriously doubt yourself.
There were cloudy spots like bacterial colonies suspended in the
brown irises.

Jack had a sudden memory of his
father doing lines in his trailer while on location with Freddie the
Fuzz. Jack was only seven when Dick Makowski told him, "Freddie's
just make-believe, okay? I hate the fucking police. They're all on the
take. And this show? This stupid show that you love so much? It's bullshit,
Jack. It's ratings crap. Don't buy any of it."

But he had bought it. Despite his
father's cynicism, Jack grew up wanting to be just like Freddie and the police
officers he'd met on location, and now here he was, putting away the bad
guys. Would his father be proud of him? He doubted it, even though Jack's
job was to keep shallow, bitter men like Dick Makowski free from harm.
Tully wiped the blood off his chin and grinned. "Good work," he
said, and that was all the validation Jack needed.

Around 1:00 a.m., after wrestling
for hours with her insomnia, Daisy got out of bed and stared out her cabin
window. The scenery hadn't changed. The palm trees still looked freeze-dried.
The pool was a blue bubble. The stars twinkled brightly in the sky. There
were 200 billion stars in the Milky Way alone, the same number of neurons
as were in the human brain. All those neurons, and yet nobody could figure
out where Anna was. Daisy wanted finality. She wanted closure.

The motel phone rang, startling her
out of this unhappy reverie. "It's Jack Makowski. We need to
talk."

Her mouth tightened. She turned
on the light. "What's wrong?"

"Can we meet in person?"

"What, now?"

"Yes. Now."

She understood perfectly well
what he meant-at least her body knew before her brain did.
"Okay," she said.

"Pick you up in fifteen minutes."

He took her to an all-night diner,
where the vinyl booths were the color of candy apples and C&W lullabies
wafted from the jukebox. The tired-looking detective ran his thumb down
a tall plastic menu, hunting for something to eat. There were spider veins
around his nose and a hollow look to his face, as if he'd seen the inside
of too many cocktail lounges. His shoulders kept slumping forward, and
he straightened them every couple of minutes, and she couldn't help
pitying him. He looked so solitary and serious beneath the fluorescent
lights.

Now a waiflike waitress with a
headful
of split ends came over to their table, and Daisy
ordered a decaf coffee.

"Is that all?" the girl said
sweetly. "We make the best burgers in L.A., bar none."

Daisy shook her head. "No
thanks."

"Sure you don't want anything?"
Jack said. "It's on me."

"I'm not hungry." She slumped
way down in her seat, the sound of her own voice grating on her nerves.

"Apple pie a la mode,"
Jack told the waitress, handing the menu back. "I like my coffee
strong. Espresso if you have it, three shots with lots of cream." He
folded his hands on the place mat. His brow was lined with tension above
a pair of deep-set eyes. His mouth was wide and fleshy, and his nose curved
in at the tip, leading to a strangely sculpted upper lip. She liked his
upper lip. It was soft and vulnerable-looking, in contrast to his tough-guy
stance. "So," he said, "we arrested a suspect today."

She nodded, in a heightened state
of alert.

"I'm
gonna
be up-front with you," he said, assuming an authoritative air.
"A case is considered cleared when the D.A. files murder charges
and the suspect is in custody. Roy Gaines is being held on several charges,
including first-degree murder."

She tried to stay focused.
"First-degree murder?"

"The body of Colby
Ostrow
was found inside a steamer trunk in Gaines's
apartment. Now what we've done is, we've questioned him extensively
about your sister, and he…"

The waitress delivered their
orders and took her time rearranging the cream and sugar on the table.
She smiled flirtatiously at Jack while the seconds ticked past with excruciating
slowness.

After she'd sashayed away, Jack said,
"So… I had a talk with Gaines."

Daisy inhaled sharply, the room
beginning to lose its hard edges. "And?"

"He told me that he was willing
to take us to your sister's grave." He reached for her hand. "I
wanted to tell you in person."

She fought off a wave of seasickness.
"Her grave?"

"I'm sorry, Daisy."

Garth Brooks faded from the jukebox,
only to be replaced by a loud humming sound in her ears. "You mean…
he killed her? Roy Gaines killed my sister?"

"Now, wait a minute. He
didn't say he killed her, not in so many words. But he's agreed to take us
to her grave, just as long as…" He paused to search her face. "As
long as you accompany us."

"What?"

"Don't worry, Daisy. You'll be
well protected."

She couldn't escape the terror
that was grinding away inside of her now. She stared at a sign on the wall
that promised pancakes the size of your head. The after-club crowd was
beginning to fill the diner, an eclectic group of drifters with body piercings
and multicolored hair. "Wait a minute," she said, his words
not quite catching up to her reality. "Wait a minute…"

"You'll be protected every
step of the way."

"Where is this grave?"

"Somewhere in the Angeles National
Forest."

"And he killed her?" She
clutched herself in a fretful hug. "My sister's dead?"

"He didn't exactly confess to
killing her… but he's willing to show us where the body's buried. He wants
credit for the information. It's a legal maneuver. He gets brownie points
for cooperating. Everybody wants to avoid the death penalty."

She could feel pins and needles
in the extremities of her body. "Why me?" she asked desperately.
"Why does he want me there?"

"Because, for whatever twisted
reason… that's the deal. It's what he wants. Believe me, he won't cooperate
otherwise."

"But this could be a trick,
right? What if she's still alive?"

"Daisy…"

She could hear him breathing steadily
through his nose, could sense his eyes following her when she wasn't looking.
She heard the fabric move on his body, felt the tension in his muscles
as he took out a mug shot and showed it to her. 'Take another look. Do you
recognize him at all?"

She silently counted to ten before
she studied the black-and-white photograph. It was slightly different
from the police artist's sketch, but the same basic features were there-the
prominent brow, the thin, well-defined lips, those oddly unresponsive
eyes. It was the eyes that made him inhuman, she decided. What animal did
he resemble? What animal could do this? "No," she told Jack, handing
it back. "I don't recognize him."

"Okay." He slipped the
mug shot into his shirt pocket. "Look," he said softly, "I
want to end your vigil. Bring peace to you and your mother. I'll be there
the whole time. Plenty of other detectives will be there. There's absolutely
nothing for you to worry about, Daisy. You'll be surrounded by armed officers."

"But what does he want from
me?" she almost shrieked.

A few heads turned.

Jack held her hand, his grip firm
but comforting. "Look, I've appealed to his sense of decency. I've
told him that you and your mom deserve closure."

"And that's when he confessed?"

"He didn't exactly confess,
but yeah… that's when he agreed to show us to her grave."

She couldn't breathe. She needed
to focus on her air intake. "So where is this place? This forest?"

"Northeast of here, in the mountains
above the suburbs."

"But… he could be lying,
right? It's possible she's still alive, isn't it?" She gazed at him
for a puzzled moment. "You just said…"

"Look, let me lay it all out
for you. We've asked for help from the L.A. Sheriff's Department. They sent
out a search team about an hour ago, along with some tracker dogs. We've
got the forest rangers involved. This is a multiple-agency investigation
now. Believe me, there are plenty of people out there right now looking
for your sister."

"Can I go with them?"

"No. I don't want you involved
at this juncture."

"Why not?"

"Because the tracker dogs
might pick up your scent."

Her pulse would not slow down.
"Can't you make him tell you where she is? Can't you force him
to?"

He shook his head. His clothes were
very practical-looking-sneakers and jeans and a cotton T-shirt with sweat
rings under the arms. "Doesn't work that way," he said.

"Why not?"

"Because this is his call. It's
his show, however much I hate that. And believe me, I can be pretty persuasive.
But unless we get lucky tonight, this is as good as it gets. He'll take us
there tomorrow morning. That's the deal."

"I don't give a shit."
She threw down her napkin. "I want to go looking for her."

He leaned forward. "This is
difficult terrain we're talking about. A vast area. There's some concern
for people's safety. Like I said, three different agencies are coordinating
their efforts. Trust me, Daisy, we all want to find your sister tonight.
But we may not be that lucky. Come on now. Eat something. You'll need your
strength.

I'm picking you up at four-thirty.
We'll get there around dawn tomorrow."

She tried to swallow, but her swallowing
mechanism wasn't working right. "How is he getting there?" she
asked.

"Gaines? By helicopter."
Jack dug into his apple pie. "Mm. Sure you don't want a bite?"

She stared at him. How could he be
hungry at a time like this? He stored food in his cheeks like a squirrel.
She could feel her whole body twitching with adrenaline. "You never
told me how he killed his other victim," she said.

He shook his head.

"Tell me."

He reached for her hand. "Not
for you to know."

She didn't speak. She felt humiliated.

"You don't want that inside
your head. Trust me."

"Did he stab him? Shoot him?
What?"

"Look, in truth… we won't know
until we've found the body… you know what I'm saying?"

She realized she was shivering
and sweating at the same time. Her arms felt as weightless as prosthetics.
"I want to see her."

"Excuse me?"

"When we find the body. I want
to see her."

He nodded. "We'll need you to
ID her."

"And don't let him get anywhere
near me."

"Don't worry," he said.
"I won't let that prick within thirty yards."